Singer and MacLeod
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Following the events of 'Means To An End', Bobby and Castiel find it hard to adapt. Chapters will appear eventually to explain the 'retrieval record' Sam and Dean received in their new job in 'Means To An End'. No Sam or Dean here, sorry.


Author's Note:

Originally I had not intended to add anything to the end of 'Means To An End', but then it occurred to me I should add an addendum or two. I will post any more than come to me, but for now, this is it.

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**Singer and MacLeod**

**Case 1: How Castiel Woke Up For The First Time**

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Bobby crossed the room, stopping at the sofa and looking down. He sighed, his hands finding his hips of their own accord as he studied his newest house guest, currently snoring for an Olympic medal under the blanket Bobby had thrown over him the night before.

He shook his head sadly, taking in the worn, used face, the dark hair in amusing, properly tousled patterns, the dark stubble fighting its way through the tired skin. Bobby put a hand out as he leaned down, shaking the hidden shoulder firmly.

"Hey, Castiel. C'mon buddy, rise and shine," he called.

The man under his touch jolted suddenly, his eyes opening and his mouth snapping shut with an alacrity of which a Florida alligator would have been proud. His eyes darted about in a mad panic, like fish poured carelessly into a new tank. They found Bobby leaning over them and stopped dead.

"Bobby!" he cried, apparently gratefully. He pushed the blanket off him and grasped at the older man's shirt. Bobby pulled him off, unceremoniously pushing him back into the sofa quickly.

"Now just hold on a minute," he said sternly, but the man looked around wildly, his breath fast and loud.

"Where am I? What happened to me?" he demanded fearfully.

Bobby sighed, putting a hand to his cap and adjusting it slowly. "You were an angel. Then you weren't. Now you're stuck on my couch. You want coffee?" he grunted.

Castiel stared at him. "How long ago was that?"

"Yesterday," Bobby grumped, turning away quickly, knowing his face was showings signs of strain. "You turned up yesterday, telling me Sam and Dean were--. Well, you know," he allowed, walking off slowly toward the kitchen.

Castiel sat up properly and watched the older man walk away. Suddenly he looked older than he remembered. He pushed himself up to stand, checking his head was still firmly attached. He stretched out his shoulders and felt his neck slowly, looking around the room. Hearing noises from the far arch, he stepped round the blanket on the floor to find large black socks sticking out from under his black trousers.

He looked at them strangely, unused to seeing feet without shoes. He looked up and followed the noises. He came to the arch and poked his head round slowly, finding Bobby with his back to him at some stove.

"Ah… Bobby?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, Castiel," Bobby grunted.

"Ah… This is hard," he admitted.

"No, really?" Bobby snapped, turning on him suddenly. "You turn up at my house, tell me the boys are dead and never comin' back cos you sold your whatever for 'em, and then park your suddenly human ass on my sofa thinkin' I'll just take you in like some lost puppy!" he shouted.

Castiel took a soft step back. "N-no," he managed, sounding rather unprepared, confused and timid to Bobby's ears. "I mean - I mean I don't understand what happened."

Bobby stared at him. "Which _bit_?" he cried, dumbfounded.

"Ah… Well, I remember coming here and talking to you and… and saying how Sam and Dean were working, just not down here any more. And then you were quiet… but then we talked for a bit, and then… well, then everything just stopped," he said edgily. "It was awful - everything was wobbly and dark, and something was pushing me down and smothering me and I couldn't get free - and then I was in some really strange place where it was black but there were pictures but they weren't real and it was all so confusing, and then I see--"

"You fell asleep," Bobby interrupted dismissively.

"Asleep?" Castiel gasped in horror. "Is that what it's like? Is that 'sleeping'?"

"Yup," Bobby sighed. "If you're real lucky, you'll do it every night about the same time."

"But it's horrifying!" Castiel protested. "You have no control over it! It just makes you lose consciousness when you could be working!"

"Welcome to the human body," Bobby shrugged. He paused, then looked at him. "You don't remember sleeping?"

"For thousands of your years I've been an angel, Bobby," he said quietly. "There would seem to be a lot of things I have never experienced."

"Right," the older Singer acknowledged, turning back to the stove.

"Dean made it out to be the best part of his day," Castiel offered. "Well, second best."

Bobby closed his eyes for a long moment, imagining Dean's face as he had no doubt tried to explain to the then-angel why and how sleeping could be useful. He felt a lump come to his throat and cleared it quickly.

"Yeah, well," he allowed.

Castiel folded his arms suddenly, looking at the white shirt. "My arms are moving," he noticed with apprehension. "Why are my arms moving? Bobby? What's wrong with them?" he demanded.

Bobby turned at the sound of fear and squinted at the ex-angel.

"You're shivering," he pointed out. "Happens when you get cold. Jesus Christ, am I gonna have to go through all this with you too?" he demanded grumpily.

"Too?" Castiel echoed dumbly. Then he looked back at his arms. "How do I stop them? It's… it's not painful, but I don't like it," he said nervously.

"You're just cold. When you sleep it's harder to keep warm, is all," Bobby said. "That accountant get-up you been wearing for the past twenty-four hours ain't helping none. Go up the stairs and into the first room on your right. Find some proper clothes that fit while I make breakfast," he said.

Castiel nodded confidently, turning to the arch and going through, leaving Bobby to stare at the stove and the coffee pot boiling away upon it.

Suddenly he missed the Winchesters. All of them.

More than ever.

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Bobby was loading two plates full of hash browns, mixed grilled meats and sloppy mushrooms and eggs as he heard a _clomp-clomp-clomp_ on the stairs. He smiled at the sound, recognising those boots and their very welcome heralding anywhere.

"Dean, you're--." He stopped dead, the breath catching in his throat, as he realised what he had just said. He looked down at the food on the plates, suddenly wanting nothing more than to pick them both up and toss them across the room.

Instead he made himself back away to the kitchen, putting the pan and spatula down slowly. He heard the boots on the wooden floor, then the linoleum behind him, and squeezed his eyes shut.

"You're right," came Castiel's cheerful yet quiet voice from behind him. "Once I found these heavy clothes I stopped - what was it again? 'Shivering'?"

"Yeah," Bobby breathed. He forced himself to open his eyes and turn around.

Castiel was watching him warily, his hair just as wild and unkempt, but his accountant's suit gone. He was now wearing a black t-shirt under a familiar-looking white and blue striped shirt. It was much too big for him and while he had buttoned it all up save the top, he had left it untucked. The jeans on him were definitely too baggy just about everywhere.

Bobby let out a breath.

"What does that face mean?" Castiel asked quickly. "Is this alright? Should I look for something else?"

"Nah… Forget it," he said sadly. "Just… Sam loved that shirt. Kept it here for emergencies and the like. Don't know if Dean'd like the thought of you in his pants," he smiled.

Castiel looked down at the jeans. "I think they're supposed to look like they have holes in them. I don't understand why," he mused. "The only things I found that actually fit are the boots."

Bobby looked down at them and couldn't stop his face registering the hurt.

"What? I can change them," Castiel offered. "Are these yours?"

"No," Bobby managed, refusing to show any more emotion to a newly-made human who wouldn't understand anyway. "No. It's just… Dean's favourite. His best spare pair, he said. Always here Bobby, he said, just like you."

"Oh," Castiel hedged uncertainly. "I'll take them off--"

"No," he interrupted. "You don't have to--. I mean, he ain't gonna need 'em, right?" His own harshness surprised him, the words already burning off his tongue.

"N-no," Castiel managed. He sniffed suddenly. "Is that food?" he asked, looking over at the table beyond the arch.

"Yeah. Go, knock yourself out," he said gruffly.

Castiel turned and disappeared from the kitchen, and Bobby felt himself sag against the counter.

_I can't do this. I can't have him around when I'm trying to feel ok about them dyin'_. He sniffed and hated himself for it, raising a hand to wipe at his nose resentfully. He pushed himself off the counter and walked through the arch, finding Castiel already sat at the small table.

"It makes my nose move," the ex-angel observed, watching the plate as if it might leap up and slap him for staring.

Bobby sat down slowly, reaching for his fork automatically. "That's a good thing," he said.

"Right," Castiel nodded, casting a sly glance at the older man before picking up his fork and mirroring his actions. If Bobby noticed, he didn't give any sign.

Instead they finished the fried food in silence, save the chomping and cutlery noises. It was over far too quickly for Bobby's mood, and he dropped the fork down loudly enough to make the former angel jump.

"Bobby?" he asked quietly.

"What, Castiel?"

"Well… I know you must be very… upset because… well because Sam and Dean aren't here any more," he began, and it looked as if he were choosing his words carefully.

"What of it?" Bobby demanded.

"I… I don't want you to be upset. But I don't know what to say to help you," he confessed.

Bobby looked at him for a long moment. "There's nothin' you _can_ say," he replied simply, getting up and picking up his plate. "Who says you have to help me? You're not an angel any more, you got the right to be a complete asshole and just up and leave if you want to." _Please._

"Something I can do, then?"

"Oh, I'd say you'd done enough already," Bobby warned.

"Oh. It's all my fault," he realised.

"Not really," Bobby admitted. "Look. I just… I just don't need you wearing those boots that make it sound like Dean's walkin' round my place again, or wearing that shirt that makes me see Sam from the corner of my eye before I see it's you, and I don't like people trying to make me feel better. You get me, Castiel?"

The man let his head bow slightly. "Yes, Bobby," he said quietly, and the older man's eyes shot to the ceiling before he looked back down at him.

"And try not to sound too much like a teenage Sam," he grumbled, taking both empty plates back to the kitchen. "All we have to do now is figure out what it is you're going to do with the rest of your life. Now that you have one."

"I have a horrible feeling I know exactly what I'm going to do," Castiel allowed, and his tone matched Bobby's mood in its abject trepidation.

Bobby looked back at him, let his shoulders sag, and nodded. "Oh _God_," he huffed.

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End file.
